


Capable Hands

by Jmeelee



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, D/s undertones, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-05-28 16:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15052892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: **REPOST**James Flint loses his usual massage therapist.  It's okay though; John Silver has capable hands.





	Capable Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is a backdated repost. Please read the tags. There are some D/s undertones in this fic and no conversation of consent or safety words. Please don't come after me with pitchforks. I came here to chew bubblegum and write porn. And I'm all out of bubblegum (and patience for assholes).

“I swear, Mr. Flint, it won’t be more than three weeks until the sprain is healed. Until then, I can highly recommend one of our other therapists. I trained him myself. You won’t be disappointed.”

James Flint can feel his shoulders stiffen in response to Hal Gates’ unfortunate news. With the company merger coming up, and the deadlines of no less than six bestsellers looming over this head, this is the absolute worse time for his masseuse to sprain a thumb. The knots in his shoulder blades are becoming unbearable, and every roll of his neck is eliciting pops and cracks his secretary can probably hear through the office door. 

“Who is he?” Flint growls through the phone. 

“His name is Billy, sir. He specializes in sports massage and deep tissue massage.” 

“I don’t play sports,” Flint snarls. “I run a publishing company. Does he specialize in getting rid of the stress of working with complete idiots?” The pressure of running the company, being in charge every single minute, is wearing him down mentally and physically. He needs his massage appointments like an alcoholic needs a fifth of vodka. 

Hal has the audacity to laugh. “I think you will be pleasantly surprised and like having a different therapist. And it’s only for a short time. We will be back to our regular, weekly appointments before you know it.” 

Flint highly doubts he will be happy, but grumbles and accepts the change. It isn’t like he has any other choice. He transfers Hal through to his office assistant to get the appointment scheduled in his calendar, and thinks these next three appointments better provide the best massages he has ever had in his life, or Hal Gates will suffer the consequences. 

* 

“That,” he snaps, pointing at a short, curly-headed man standing next to the welcome desk and smiling like a moron, “is not Billy.” 

Flint has never met or seen Hal’s recommended massage therapist, but this idiot standing in front of him has the name _John_ embroidered over the chest pocket of his black uniform. The scrub top is cut in a deep V, offering Flint a tantalizing glimpse of tanned, toned neck and chest. The man is smiling too big, showing off bright white teeth. 

“Mr. Flint, I know you are disappointed in the change in routine,” Max, owner of the day spa, simpers, “but Billy was called out to assist a client with a sports injury. John has kindly offered to come in on his day off so we did not have to inconvenience you and reschedule. We know how busy you are.” She is wearing an artfully cultivated mask of empathy and regret, and John is still sporting a manic smile. _Damn Hal Gates to hell_. Flint pokes his index finger into the white thread of the sewn name badge on John’s uniform, meeting solid muscle underneath the fabric. 

“If you are terrible, I’m not paying.” 

* 

The new therapist leads him to a different room than he typically patronizes with Gates. It’s smaller, darker, colder, and smells different, which immediately pisses Flint off. Instead of soothing ocean waves, the sound machine is spitting out the noises of the rain forest, rustling leaves and squawking parrots. How is he supposed to relax listening to a God-forsaken bird? There is a small work bench next to the massage bed, and a low stool with wheels in the corner. The therapist consults a clipboard, humming under his breath and tucking wayward curls behind his ears. When he is done reading Flint’s chart he raises his head and flashes another enormous grin, one that crinkles the corners of his startling blue eyes. The man is stunningly handsome, Flint begrudgingly admits. 

“I understand you might be a bit nervous having someone else work on you for the first time, but my name is John Silver and I happen to be a very good masseuse. You are in my capable hands now, James. 

“No.” Flint balks at the use of his first name, too intimate in this man’s smirking mouth. “It’s Mr. Flint.” 

John Silver barks out a laugh. “Okay, Flint,” he says with just a hint of disrespect. “Whatever you want. Now, your chart says to focus on the back and shoulders. Any _other_ problem areas?” The way he says it makes the hair on the back of Flint’s neck stand up. 

“Back and shoulders is fine,” he answers. “Do _not_ touch my feet.” 

Silver assesses him for a moment too long with shrewd, narrowed eyes, his head cocked. The deliberate stare makes Flint uneasy, makes him want to turn away but he fights the weakness. Something predatory and knowing flares in John Silver’s blue eyes, causing Flint to feel like he is treading water, about to sink at any second. “We’ll see about that.” Before Flint can open his mouth to issue more mandates, Silver’s face turns callous and his voice shifts from spirited to commanding. “Now, take off your clothes and get on the table,” Silver demands without shuffling toward the door to give him privacy, as Gates typically does. 

Flint feels it roar up his spine, the instinct to obey, and turns away rapidly before Silver can detect it. He tampers down this base desire every day of his life, burying it like stolen treasure, but the dominant tone of Silver’s voice threatens to unearth his secret. He struggles to control the shaking of his fingers with a few deep breaths as he shucks his blazer and unbuttons his blue dress shirt, folds them neatly and places them on a small wooden table in the corner. He quickly glances over his shoulder as his hands move to undo his belt buckle and unzip his trousers, trying to see if he has unnerved Silver, but the man is just staring at him with that infuriating smirk plastered on his lips. It no longer reaches his eyes, Flint notes. They have gone hard. 

His dress slacks and boxers pool to the floor around his ankles and he does an embarrassing dance toeing off his Russian calf shoes and cashmere socks before stepping out of them. Without a glance at the masseuse he hops onto the table with as much dignity he can muster, and slides face-down into the terrycloth sheet and blanket, nestling his head into the cradle. 

He can hear rather than see Silver moving about the room. There is a small _pop_ of what he assumes is the bottle of massage oil, and the sounds of Silver’s hands briskly rubbing together to heat the lotion. Even the lotion’s smell is jarring as it permeates the tiny room, Sandalwood and Jasmine. Gates always uses Lavender and Almond. The first touch of skin-on-skin is electrifying and soothing at the same time and Flint does not know how John’s hands manage to be so utterly contrary on his body. 

Silver begins the massage by simply gliding his slick palms in brush-like strokes up and down the expanse of Flint’s back, letting the skin warm up as the strokes draw blood to the tense area. His palms trek into the dip of Flint’s lower back, pressing hard and pulling a soft moan begrudgingly from James’s mouth. He can hear Silver hum approvingly above him. 

The nimble fingers move back up to the base of his shoulder blades where they angle toward the spine and knead, working fingertips and knuckles in a firm dig until the stiffness finally eases. His hands dance across flesh in the direction of muscle fibers, grabbing large muscle groups and squeezing them first with one hand, then the other, applying transverse friction and melting knots as they go. Silver soothes over Flint’s neck and down his spine in one smooth glide. 

Flint can’t help but groan when Silver’s fingers bite deep into the strained flesh of his upper and lower arms, then press into his palms and tug his fingers at the base. John’s hands are slippery with oil and several degrees hotter than Flint’s, working their way between his fingers and pressing into the base of his thumb. Flint is eternally grateful his face is planted in the cradle of the table and Silver cannot see how heated his cheeks are, because it is becoming impossible not to imagine those burning hands massaging his cock. 

When the masseuse skims warm hands down the back of his thighs and over his calves Flint is so dazed he doesn’t think to protest, though his legs are an area Gates rarely, if ever, focuses on. It is not until Silver wraps his talented hands around Flint’s ankles and squeezes forcefully that he lifts his head minutely to remind the man not to touch his feet, but the words are stalled in his throat by Silver’s harsh voice, raspy from disuse this past hour. 

“Now, _you_ listen to _me_.” He squeezes again, brutally, making sure he has Flint’s full attention. “At the office you may be the boss, ordering people about, but in this room, I’m in charge. In here you answer to me, you do what I say, and here’s what’s going to happen. For the next three weeks I am going to touch you wherever I _fucking_ want and you are not going to say a word. Do you understand?” The curse word slithers off Silver’s tongue, lewd and insinuating, robbing the breath from Flint’s lungs. John digs his fingertips harder into the bones of Flint’s ankles. “I said, do you understand?” This man had his number the moment he walked in the door of the spa, Flint realizes too late. James nods once, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, and replaces his face in the cradle. 

Then Silver is squeezing both his feet, digging his thumbs into the arches and an electrical storm is short circuiting Flint’s brain. _This_ is what he wants, what he never allows himself to admit to wanting, this stripping of all control. His mouth opens in a silent moan as John presses into the soles of his feet, using circular motions to compress all the sensitive spots. 

Just as quickly as the fingers assault, they move away, gliding back up his calves and thighs, over the swell of his buttocks and up his back and neck in one smooth arc. He squeezes the back of Flint’s neck, gently, and leans down to whisper in his ear. “Your hour is up. I’m glad you understand how things are going to work between us when you are in this room. I’ll see you next week.” With that, Silver’s hands pull away, leaving Flint cold and wanting, and the door closes softly behind him. 

Flint dresses himself as if in a fog, mouth slack and limbs loose. He fumbles with his wallet, leaving a crisp fifty dollar bill in the tip bowl. He stumbles out of the room and down the hallway toward the main desk where Max is waiting to take his money, as she always is, but at the last minute he veers into the men’s room, throwing himself into the largest stall and sliding the metal lock in place with a vibrating clang. Once the door is secure, he braces one hand on the cold pewter handicap rail and rips down his zipper, shoving his pants roughly to his mid-thigh, trapping his legs together as he takes his dick in hand. The position is not comfortable, but he is beyond caring. He is too far gone for any sort of finesse, and a dozen rough pulls later he paints the pristine white tile floor with his come, screwing his eyes shut so tightly he sees black spots. He may or may not have moaned Silver’s name. 

* 

Flint spends the entire week telling himself he will not go back to the spa. Not even if all the muscles in his body are seizing and he can barely function. John Silver is dangerous to him, he knows. He feels a strange, heady mixture of fear and pride at how quickly the man recognized his fantasies of being dominated. Yet despite his vows to stay away, the following week Flint is striding in at his usual appointment time, feeling like an ocean tide pulled to the shore. 

Silver is waiting for him at the front desk when he pushes in the frosted glass doors of the spa, and Flint stumbles when he sees the familiar, too wide grin now full of wicked intent. John smirks wider at his misstep. Max, standing behind the welcome desk, studiously keeps her eyes averted from both of them. Wordlessly, Silver turns away and saunters down the hallway, and Flint follows like a doting puppy until they reach the same room they inhabited the week prior. Silver holds the door open for him with one hand, and brushes the other against Flint’s shoulder as he passes into the small room. Flint can’t help the shiver of anticipation that passes over him at the possessive touch. 

Once Silver closes the door, Flint has no idea what to do. Should he wait for direction from John, or start to undress? Silver is grabbing massage oil and a small towel from a cabinet, settling these items on a work station next to the cloth covered bed. He finally graces Flint with a look, and straightens, pointing at James’s crotch. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Strip.” 

Flint does, as quickly as he can, and one of his cufflinks goes rolling along the tile floor in his haste. John clicks his tongue in displeasure. When he is fully naked he moves to slide under the sheet and blanket on the table, but Silver halts him by placing the fingertips of one hand against his chest. “Face up, this time,” he commands. “No cover.” 

Flint acquiesces, lying down on his back. Already his dick is hard from following Silver’s commands, and the cool air on his heated skin feels like an indecent caress. He squeezes his eyes shut as Silver’s fingertips return to his exposed skin, skimming lightly over his chest and up the thick column of his neck. 

John begins to massage his thumbs into Flint’s temples, then smooths out the skin under his eyes. The strokes are gentle and John massages the tension from his brow for so long that James begins to melt under his touch, relaxing enough that even his hard-on begins to wilt. That is, until Silver buries his fingertips into the hair at the base of Flint’s neck, grabs the strands solidly and give a mighty _pull_. 

James gasps, the blood rushing to his cock at full speed, and he is completely, painfully hard, balls tightening. 

John sighs, a rapturous sound. “So that’s it,” he leans down to whisper intimately in Flint’s ear, never releasing the tight hold he has on the roots of his red hair. “You like it hard? You like it rough?” 

Flint cannot make his mouth form words; his tongue has gone numb, his brain high on oxygen, so instead he just whines, desperate and hungry. Silver takes it as assent, because he continues. “You’re always in control, aren’t you? You push people around all day long but it’s you who wants to be _pushed_. You were good this session, better than the last time. You showed up on time, kept your fucking mouth shut. You listened to me when I told you I’m the fucking boss in here. Because you were so good, I’m going to be nice to you. I’m going to push you, James. I’m going to help you release some of the _tension_ you’re holding.” 

Silver grabs Flint by the back of the neck, manhandling him into a sitting position with his legs dangling off either side of the table. He hops lithely up onto the table and settles himself behind Flint, straddling his hips. Flint can feel John’s polyester clothed erection brush against his buttocks and lower back. Silver pushing him around makes James’s whole body respond, and he can feel his muscles relaxing, his breathing becoming deeper. 

“Yes,” Silver coaches. “That’s it. Just like that. You’re so fucking sexy, James, so sexy when you submit to me. ” He reaches around and takes hold of Flint’s cock with one oil-slicked hand, the other smoothing over the muscles in his neck to reclaim his hair and tug hard. Flint’s hips buck upward in a frantic rhythm, trying to fuck into the tight clench of Silver’s fist, but Silver has other ideas, pulling him long and slow, keeping a torturous pace. “You need this so badly, don’t you?” he murmurs to Flint. “Everyone else is scared of you. They don’t realize if they squeeze here,” he pulls mercilessly on Flint’s hair, “they’ve got you by the fucking balls.” Silver leisurely twists the wrist of the hand holding Flint’s cock, thumb swiping over his slit and smearing pre-cum over the flushed head. “You need this, James,” Silver whispers his name like a blasphemy. “You need this and more. You need to be touched, to be filled up.” 

At this, Flint starts to beg. “Please, please.” He is not sure if he is begging to come or begging for Silver’s cock to fill him, but the words are falling from his lips like a litany, regardless. 

“Shh,” John soothes, tightening the grip around the base of his cock and finally starting to pick up speed. “All in good time, I promise.” He pumps Flint in earnest now, pulling roughly. The only sounds in the room are the noise machine and the sticky, filthy squelch of lube between his legs. Flint’s own fingers are dancing up his thighs, one going to his balls and the other wrapping around the wrist of the hand stroking his member, trying to urge Silver on. John pays it no attention, continuing to torment him with steady, smooth strokes that are pushing him to the edge but not bringing him to orgasm, causing his cock to drool a puddle of clear liquid onto the white sheet covering the table. John wraps his thumb and forefinger around the base, clutching tight and making Flint impossibly hard. His thighs start to shake. 

“Yes,” John says, encouragingly. “That’s what I want to see. You’re so hard, so close to coming. Do you want to come, James?” Flint moans and nods, squeezing his own balls tighter. 

“I could make you come right now, if I wanted,” John teases. “Or I could make this last a lot longer. What should I do, James?” 

“Oh, God, please,” Flint begs. John mercifully pulls the tight lock of his finger and thumb from base to tip in a slow measured slide, and then tickles feather light touches over the engorged head. He runs one finger down the vein on the underside, and then takes Flint’s cock in his whole hand. 

“All right,” he says. “Come.” 

Three short tugs later, Flint lets loose a thankful sob, and his dick is shooting cum in a long arc all over the table, hips arching forward. Silver pumps him through the last few convulsions, running his thumb softly over the slit when he is sure there is nothing left in James. The soft touch is too much on his oversensitive skin, and he whines and jerks his hips. Silver laughs and gives Flint’s cock one last squeeze before letting go. 

When he slides off the table Flint flops back unceremoniously, throwing an arm over his eyes. He cannot seem to find a way back to himself after Silver held him on the edge for so long. The noise machine is too loud, the squawking jungle parrots taunting him about the thrill of pleasure he got not only from coming, but from obeying Silver. His thighs are still quivering with the aftershocks. He wants to be anywhere but in this room, yet he knows as soon as he leaves he will be craving Silver again, like a drug. 

He can hear John rubbing the towel over his hands, then the used rag lands on his own stomach. “Until next week, James,” Silver states, and then he is gone, leaving Flint lying in his own filth, already thirsting for John’s touch. 

* 

The following week Silver doesn’t bother standing on ceremony and starting with a massage. He simply takes James by the hair as soon has he has disrobed, and bends him over the massage table next to the tube of oil. His hands fly over Flint’s back and sides, up his thighs and over his ass cheeks, as if he is trying to touch him everywhere at once. He kicks at Flint’s feet with his sneakers, spreading his legs. 

“Oh fuck,” Flint moans, because John has not yet directed him to keep his mouth shut. “Are you going to do me right here? Are you going to fuck me right on the table? Do it, I want it. Give it to me, Silver, fuck me—" 

“Shut up.” Silver pushes a few fingers into Flint’s mouth to ensure he stops babbling, and Flint laves at them with his tongue, making Silver buck his clothed erection against Flint’s bare ass. Once the fingers are slick with spit he pulls them away to grab the oil, spilling a generous amount over his already damp hand. He slides one slick finger over the back of Flint’s balls and into the crack of his ass, the spit and oil making it easy for Silver’s finger to slip into Flint’s hole on the first press. He slides in to the first knuckle and retreats, repeating the action, allowing James to become accustomed to the intrusion, before entering fully in a smooth glide. He works him open with one finger for some time, and then progresses to two. 

Flint’s skin is starting to break out in a fine sheen of sweat, his back muscles rippling and fingers scrabbling in the cotton table cover. Whenever he tries to grind his erection against the massage bed for friction, Silver grabs his hips, holding him back. His cock and balls are heavy and aching, begging to be touched. Even his nipples hurt, and he tries to flatten his chest on the table, but John pulls him back by the hair, making his neck and back arch at a painful angle. “You don’t come until I say so, remember?” Silver reminds him. “In this room you do what I say, when I say it.” 

John’s fingers retreat, leaving him empty. Flint sputters in outrage. “More, please,” he cries. 

Silver laughs low and intimate. “Don’t worry; I’m going to give you exactly what you need. I want you so wet that I can slide in to the hilt in one go.” With that declaration, he lets go of Flint’s hair to pull over a rolling stool and sits down between Flint’s spread legs. Flint’s face falls forward when he feels Silver’s breath ghost over his ass cheeks and his thumbs spread them open. The swipe of his tongue against his sensitive hole is hot and rough. A strangled sound escapes him when the tip thrusts inside, and he can’t help pushing back into Silver’s face, even though he is afraid Silver will stop because he wasn’t given permission to move. Silver does eventually stop, but not until he has Flint’s hole dripping wet. 

His tongue retreats but his fingers are back in an instant, slipping three digits inside now, making Flint come apart at the seams. “I want you to do something for me,” Silver murmurs, not as authoritative as he usually is. 

“If I do it, will you fuck me?” Flint dares to ask. 

Silver’s fingers move away, and Flint can hear him shucking off clothes before he sits on the stool again. He wraps one hands, slick with oil and sweat, around Flint’s hip. The authority is back, but Flint can hear a smile in Silver’s voice when he speaks. “Sit on my lap and fuck my cock.” 

All the air leaves Flint’s lungs in one crushing breath. He lets Silver guide him back with the steady hand on his hip. Silver’s other hand is holding his own cock, lining it up so Flint can glide down in one smooth slide. They both freeze, panting for breath when James is fully seated, his hands gripping the table and thighs squeezing, quivering with the effort of holding himself upright. A tiny corner of Flint’s brain is firing with victory, acknowledging that John’s façade is cracking in the face of his own pleasure. 

“Move,” Silver pronounces after a few moments, but he is still breathless. Flint does, lifting off until just Silver’s head is breaching his rim and then sinking down fully again, pulling a grunt from John’s lips. Flint’s hands are fisting the sheet covering the table, ripping it from its tight folds until it pools in his lap and his hands are scrambling for purchase against the leather table top. John’s hands are guiding his hips, holding him steady. Flint is trying to move as fast as he can, desperate for the feeling of John’s cock splitting him in half, praying he can come from just the sweet, sliding burn. 

“Oh, fuck it,” John says, voice strained, wrapping an arm around James’s hips and pushing up off the stool. Never pulling out from Flint’s ass, he throws Flint’s upper body across the table and proceeds to pound into him. John leans forward, laying his sweaty chest against James’s back, and reaches around to grab Flint’s cock. They are both moaning with each thrust, John mouthing at the back of Flint’s neck, licking down his spine. “So good,” he keeps panting between swipes of his tongue, “You taste so good James.” Between the cock in his ass, the slippery hold on his dick, John’s tongue and his encouraging words, Flint is barely holding on, riding the edge of his orgasm with abandon. 

“You take my cock so good. I knew you would, first moment I saw you walk in this fucking place. I told you, didn’t I?” Silver gasps. “I told you, that first day, you were in my capable hands. I was right. No one can give it to you like this. No one else can give you what you really need.” 

Flint is so close he can see stars. “No one else, no one else,” he pants. “You are perfect. You are everything.” He is not above begging. Not anymore. “Please John, I’m so close.” 

John slides his tongue up to Flint’s neck and whispers, breath hot in the shell of his ear. “Come for me, James, and say my name when you do.” 

And he finally tips over the edge. “John, John, John, John,” he pants with each pulse of his cock. He comes so hard his knees buckle and he would have fallen to the floor except for Silver’s body, still thrusting madly behind him, pinning him to the table. With one final hard thrust, John let loose a string of profanity and comes hot and wet inside Flint, dick throbbing. 

They lay there incapable of movement; Flint still slumped over the table with Silver laying on top of his back, both panting in unison. Silver’s breath is cooling the sweat beading on Flint’s shoulder blades, making him shiver. Finally Silver pulls away with a wet sound, and Flint can feel cum and massage oil leaking over his taint and balls while John rummages through the supply cabinets behind them. Flint drifts in ecstasy for a few quiet moments, not moving, until Silver returns with a wet towel, hot from the warmer, and starts to wipe him clean. 

Once Flint is washed and recovered, they dress slowly, eyeing each other the whole time but never saying a word. John’s black scrubs are slightly wrinkled from being balled up on the floor. Flint’s clothes are immaculate, as usual, but his cheeks and neck are still flushed. Silver holds the door open for Flint when he leaves, and brushes a hand against his shoulder as he walks out. 

* 

Flint honestly forgets, and it is all John’s fault. Silver has invaded every crevice of his mind these last few weeks. He thinks about him when he is eating his breakfast, whenever he has a moment alone at work, in the shower, before bed, and again first thing in the morning. On his customary appointment day, he can barely think of anything but John, and needs to physically stop himself from running from his car to the front doors of the spa. So it is a horrible, jolting surprise to see Hal Gates standing where he expects John Silver to be. 

“Look at this!” Hal announces with a jovial smile, holding up his previously wounded hand. The smile is so unlike John’s it makes Flint physically ill. “Totally healed!” Hal is turning his hand back and forth, showing off his palm and wiggling his fingers. “Are you ready to get started?” Then, Hal notices James’s face. “Mr. Flint,” he says, nervously, “is something wrong? I thought you’d be happy to have me back.” 

Max looks up from the terminal at the welcome desk and takes note of Flint’s grim, shocked face. He is pretty sure his heart stopped beating the moment he walked in and found John gone. “Today is John Silver’s customary day off, Mr. Flint,” she tells him with a meaningful look. Flint glances back and forth between her and Hal, helpless, wanting to dash out of the building and knock on every door in the city until he finds Silver. Max studies him for a few seconds longer, then reaches under the desk and pulls out a business card, handing it over to Flint with a knowing smirk and salacious wink. 

The front of the card is embossed with the name of the day spa in slanted black script. He turns the card over, and written in blue pen is a phone number and message that jump-starts his heart beating again. 

_Next time you need a set of capable hands, give me a call._

“Mr. Flint?” Hal asks again. James looks up at them and smiles. Hal, having never seen Flint do anything other than grimace, looks aghast, and Max lets loose a lilting laugh. Flint turns around and walks out without a word, striding purposefully toward his car, cell phone already in hand, dialing the number. 


End file.
